


"The Wish to Forget It"

by farad



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Obsession" - he was taught to remember everything, because every detail was a weapon. But it took him a lot longer to understand that they were weapons against himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"The Wish to Forget It"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randi2204](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/gifts), [Mendax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mendax/gifts).



> The awesome Randi created Bingo cards for us for the past several years; last year I was slack and didn't get as much done as I wanted to. This year, we did two different 'prompt' structures, the 'words' and more details prompts. I took one each of the cards from this year, and coupled those two prompts with my bingo prompts from last year. This is the result for the combined prompts of all three cards for the square at the top row, fifth position: 
> 
> regular card: Seal of the confession  
> Prompty prompt: M28: Ezra and Chris, elephants never forget  
> From Bingo #2: Lines and Curves
> 
> Thanks to the awesome JoJo for reading and giving valuable feedback. All mistakes my own.

**"Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it." - Michel de Montaigne**

 

It was early, dawn barely breaking, the sky dark, the lamp, though turned low, just barely burning as the oil was exhausted. He was rarely awake at this time of night, only on really good nights when the cards were falling just right, the brandy making his competitors overconfident and malleable.

 

But tonight, he was not alone. Chris rarely stayed over, not this late – or early – and Ezra wanted to appreciate it, wanted to enjoy the time that Chris was in the bed with him, his bare skin warm under the soft cotton of the sheets, his breath tickling as it blew against Ezra's hair. Wanted to appreciate the weight of Chris' body against his, the intimacy of Chris' comfort, the pleasure of his trust.

 

It was something Ezra himself had rarely known, his own confidence that the man in bed with him was someone who would not betray him in the morning, or worse, someone who would not meet his eyes as they dressed in the heavy silence of their embarrassment.

 

He had expected that the first time they had been together, that wild, drunken night when he had invited Chris up to his room for that one last drink, only to find himself on his knees in front of the man, then manhandled into his own bed where he had found Chris Larabee, their leader, the man Judge Travis had just trusted to protect the town, the man who had been married and still mourned the loss of his wife and child, letting Ezra do what he wanted. Letting Ezra have control over him.

 

More disconcerting, though, had been that next morning, when Chris had looked Ezra in the eyes, shaking his head. They had both been hungover, and for a while, Ezra had assumed that that was the cause of Chris' unusual behavior.

 

But the second time, a surprise because it was as second time and not more than two weeks later, they had neither been drunk, so there had been no excuse the next day when Chris had acted as if nothing had happened. No, that wasn't quite right – he hadn't pretended that the previous night hadn't happened. He hadn't avoided Ezra. In fact, he had settled into the chair across the table at lunch, talking to Ezra and the others who had joined them, no discomfort or embarrassment.

 

It was a new experience for Ezra, this security. This trust.

 

That had been almost two and a half years ago. A lifetime.

 

Chris shifted against him, snorting a little in his sleep. He turned his head then rolled a little, settling on his belly. The sheet drifted lower with the movements, and even though the lamplight was dim, Ezra could see a broad expanse of bare back, defined by the sharp bone of one shoulder blade.

 

Chris' skin was pale, the faint tan he had had in the summer faded at this point. Freckles dotted the broad landscape, spaced wide apart, as if someone had scattered them with the sweep of an arm, throwing out chicken feed, as his grandmother used to say.

 

The thought of her, here in his bed with another man naked against him, made him wince; as pleasanet as the memory was, he did not need to be thinking of his grandmother. But his memory was a strange thing, able to recall details he would much preferred to forget.

 

Such as the image of his grandmother in her back yard, one elegant, curved arm moving through the heavy, cloying Georgia air, tiny pellets of golden corn showering from her hand, the racket of hens cackling as they scrambled through the brown dirt for the feed. The war had forced her to do so many things that were beneath her, and the image of her, dressed in her fine cotton dress, her lace gloves hanging through the belt so that they wouldn't be ruined by the corn kernels, always made him sad.

 

As did the memory of Chris' long body stretched on the tan sand, legs extended in a cloud of dust, a line of blood winding down his chest, the rumble of horses hooves' in the distance, the sharp call of men's voices cutting through the echo of gunfire.

 

The image was sharp, biting into his drowsiness, cutting away the haze of contentment. It pushed through his mind, dragging with it other images: a line of men standing behind Ella Gaines, their guns in hand, ready to fire. Ella Gaines herself, a small figure rigid in the cool of early morning, the sun behind her, red and orange light catching in the white of her satin gown and the netting of her veil.

 

The line of Chris' back as he jerked his horse forward to stand in front of the others, 'his men, his friends', refusing to let Ella's men fire, for fear of hitting him.

 

No matter how hard Ezra tried to forget that image, to forget the way Chris had ridden back in forth in front of him, Vin, Buck, and Josiah, the way Chris, damn him, had thrown himself out there as a shield. The way he yelled her that she should kill him, too, because there was no way he'd ever go anywhere with her, not alive, not ever again. The memory of it tore at Ezra's mind at the worst times. In the middle of a game of cards, as he dealt swiftly around the circle of the table, thinking of nothing of important except the round coins in the center over which the cards flew. In the comfort his bed, the pillow fluffed into a ball under his head, just on the edge of sleep, his closed eyes holding the image of the crescent of the moon that was barely visible in the dark sky of the night.

 

The way it came now, with Chris resting hard against him, the arc of his cheekbone creating a dark spot of shadow on a taut cheek, the sculpted muscle of his bare upper arm heavy against the swell of Ezra's abdomen.

 

The image of Chris, his arm extended, the barrel of the pistol like a pointing finger, aimed at that bitch, at her men, at anyone lined up against them.

 

No matter where the image came to Ezra, no matter what he tried to do to stop the memory of it, it moved through him as if his mind were not his own. Her men with their guns drawn, aiming, looking past Chris at them, but then, every so often, looking at Chris. Gauging the distance. Thinking of the shot.

 

Ella yelling at Chris, her voice high and desperate, then angry. Her face changing, her wide, bright eyes narrowing to slits, the slash of her lips dissecting her vulpine face.

 

Her shriek as she had finally lost control, her words barely recognizable but the intent so very clear.

 

This was the worst, the inability to forget this was a curse. Five shots. He would never, ever know which one came first or last or anywhere. None of them would. All he knew was that Chris rode forward, straight into the their guns, that Ezra's own gun was in his hand, pushing back against him as he fired, that horses bucked and screamed, that Buck was cursing, and one of Ella's men fell off his horse – and that Ella Gaines herself stood, a crimson line, like the one across her face, vertically dividing her crisp white dress in half.

 

A line of blood just like the one Chris had worn. Only this line had ended what the last one had only started.

 

"It's done, forget it." The voice was low and rough, worn by sleep and liquor and what they'd done earlier. "I'm here, you're here, we're all here. All of us that matter."

 

Ezra swallowed, blinking as he turned. Green eyes stared up at him, sleepy and knowing, the gold flecks bright in the faint lamp light.

 

He drew a breath, opening his mouth, the words right on his tongue. Chris stopped them with a finger, one that touched Ezra's lips. "Not again. Not tonight."

 

Not ever. They had never talked about it and they never would. Not with each other, not with the others. A silent vow among the five of them. One of them had killed her, to save Chris. All of them had fired.

 

The fingertip was warm, the callous rough but familiar. Chris moved, pushing up on his other arm. Strands of his blond hair hung vertically down his forehead, glimmering in the soft light. "You need to forget it."

 

Ezra looked at him. Chris was slowly gaining back the weight he had lost to the bullet she had caused, the stretch of skin over his bones loosening little by little. "Will you?" he asked softly, his lips moving against Chris' touch.

 

Chris blinked, slowly, his eyelashes creating a dark half-circle against his cheeks. "What happened then? Yeah. I will. It's not important. We're all alive."

 

He would think of it that way. A success, nothing to worry about. And perhaps it wasn't. Until the next time it happened, the next time he threw himself out there to save the others. To save Ezra.

 

"She's gone," Chris said, shifting so that his head came to rest against Ezra's chest, his words rumbling against Ezra's heart. "We got better things to think about. Better things to remember."

 

His hand left Ezra's lips, lightly touching Ezra's sternum as it skimmed down, burrowing under the bedclothes to coast slowly over Ezra's belly and lower.

 

They knew each other well, too well. Neither would ever forget. Not for the same reasons or the same guilt. Neither would ever talk about it. But for a time, they could be distracted. Together.

 


End file.
